


Devour

by virtueofvice



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 14:13:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3071111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virtueofvice/pseuds/virtueofvice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She redefined the limits of passion, taking him apart and putting him back together again, each time with another piece missing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devour

It was almost an accident, the first time. She came to his bed in December, a silent specter in blue silk and alabaster, gleaming like the dark goddess she was in a sliver of moonlight and the glow of Los Angeles at night. The crisp California winter might have been considered warm by some standards less infernal than hers, but the fragility of human skin and the chills and draughts of this world were unfamiliar territory. She crept in nude beneath the blankets, seeking warmth like a reptile and with the unabashed, unconsidered nakedness of a being who placed no value either of form or of function on the human body. 

He was somnolent, drunk, barely aware of the heat and weight beside him even as she curved her spine to fit his and steal his warmth for her chilly pallid flesh. Her hair still smelled like Fred's. After all these months; still smelled like her, felt like her in the curves and angles and secret spaces of her body, and suddenly he was hard, and suddenly thrusting into her as she keened in uncharted pleasure, and suddenly weeping. Shattering around and inside her, a broken wreck of a man, clockwork pieces and springs all around from the all the times he'd failed. It was more surrender than combustion, a sense of being swallowed whole by the inevitable.

It happened all at once, a scattering of small pebbles that became a roaring avalanche. Suddenly he couldn't have enough of her, fucking her at every opportunity, uncaring for the sensibilities of others or common decency. Angel walked in as he took her splayed on his desk, ramming into her with a ferocity he would never have used with Fred. But Illyria took it all, and demanded more, ever insatiable for the human experience. There was no longer a question of work, of solitude. There was only glaring ice blue, white hands clutching at him, the taste of death and ecstasy - a slow alchemy of self-destruction, with her as the catalyst. He stopped going home. There was no point. Wolfram and Hart and its denizens saw to his every need, save those he really needed.

"She'll fuck you to death, mate." Spike commented one night, courteously offering him a swig from a flask and a cigarette after Wesley wandered up from the lab Illyria haunted. Wesley said nothing for a long time, curve of the moon like a bleached bone and garish LA sparkle highlighting the sunken appearance of his features, the dark hollow eyes. He sipped from the flask, a smooth blended whiskey, with the metallic aftertaste of blood that was either from Spike's lips or his imagination. He was spared from making a reply when Illyria reappeared, twining herself around him in a manner more carnivorous than feminine. Her weird blue eyes, like twin will-o-the-wisps, lingered on Spike, dragging over his physique greedily, and the vampire felt himself violated by the pressure and avarice of her gaze. His skin crawled and he shrugged deeper inside the black leather trenchcoat that was a fixture of his aesthetic. "Off with you then." He turned from Wesley and his symbiotic jailer. "Mummy's calling."

Wesley went. Such was the way of things now - he never lingered overlong in the light; a mere step away and then an expectant pause, waiting for Illyria to arrive and drag him back down again into darkness. Shadows, and whispered endearments that were not hers, and curses that had once belonged to someone else but now growled out from his throat; grasping, and pressure, the sound of flesh against flesh in the dark. She redefined the limits of passion, taking him apart and putting him back together again, each time with another piece missing. 

Once, in a lull, she stared at him as he sprawled on his bed, thin and distant, no more than a ghost of himself with a cigarette in its lips. "Wesley, what is obsession?" 

He responded without missing a beat, as if the question was one he'd considered often and had been anticipating. "Loving someone so much you want to devour them." 

She tilted her head, considered, nodded. "Yes. That seems right."


End file.
